


Baaahd Science

by strange_glow



Category: Other - Fandom, Weiß Kreuz
Genre: Gen, Humor, some fluff of a sort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-28
Updated: 2015-03-28
Packaged: 2018-03-20 02:27:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3633288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strange_glow/pseuds/strange_glow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Timeline: Pre-episode 4, when Schwartz are still getting to know the Takatori clan’s cute little ways.  </p><p>Riding herd on the lunatic Takatoris in order to use them as pawns for eventual world domination has convinced Crawford it's time for a career change.  Cleaning up their messes is part of Schwarz' job, but this 'wet work' beats all.  One of Masafumi's damned experiments is unleashed on an unsuspecting world.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Baaahd Science

            “I don’t believe it,” Brad stated, having read the latest email from their evil overlords.  (He literally thought of them as ‘their evil overlords’). 

            Schuldig stopped amusing himself with attempting to combine modern free form dance and some death speed metal group's latest album.  This was a concentrated effort to disturb Nagi’s working at a class paper.  There might as well have been a brick wall up between them. Nagi was too far gone in concentration to even snort at some of his posturing.  “What now?”

            “Seriously, I do not believe it.” Brad turned the lap top around on the desk and put his head in his hands.  “And turn that noise _down!_ ”

            Schuldig turned the stereo off, only to have the exact same music continue playing in Nagi’s headphones loud enough for them to hear it. 

            “Nagi!” Brad yelled.

            Nagi rolled his eyes and turned down his Ipod, then went back to pecking at his paper on his own laptop.  

            Rosenkreuz's distance learning courses, like their 'hands on' classes, were designed to induce a 'healthy' paranoia based on self questioning double think, shell gaming goals, and basically, stupid trick questions to either toughen up a student, or make them commit suicide. 

           Nagi was tough.  Real tough.

            Not only was he determined to beat the assignment, but to do so in such a way that the grading teacher would blow his own brains out.  (Or at least that was _Nagi's_ goal. Unknown to him, he was their poster boy for success in curriculum planning.  His file photo was also on the dart board in the staff break room.)

            “You two need to get out more,” Schuldig commented, then leaned on his hands on the edge of the desk to read the email.  He read it again.  He read it a third time, just to be sure. 

            He frowned.  “Okaaaay,” he said.  “Senility wins over schnapps at last?”

            “I’m going to _kill_ Takatori Masafumi,” Brad growled. 

             

 

           “How can anyone be stupid enough to let biologically experimented on sheep accidentally be ‘milked’ for an agricultural stud exchange program?” Nagi asked in the miss-appropriated Takatori limo on the way to the airport.

            “He did it on purpose,” Brad said, just barely managing not to growl this time.  Schuldig had informed him that he was talking through clenched teeth far too often these days.  Not to mention the nervous tick in his trigger finger that was keeping him awake late at night.  “He let his damned experiment out on purpose!  I don’t care what lies he tells HQ, he’s insane.  When you’re dealing with a mad scientist, you get ‘insane’.”

            “Well, at least we get a paid trip to Ireland,” Schuldig said from the back seat, and reached over to pat Farfarello on the thigh, raising his voice a bit and speaking slow English. “Isn’t that nice? You get to go home and see the green hills and shamrocks and the—whatever it is that’s so scenic about it, right, Farfie?”

            “I’m not deaf, I’m not senile, and I’m not half going to slice you up if you keep talking to me like a daft old pensioner, you Nazi bum-boy.” Farf stated.

            “Remind me again why you talked me into getting let him out to join this team?” Brad drawled over the file he was reading. 

            “It’s that bastard trying to punish me,” Farf glared up at the roof of the car.  “Well, I’m not giving in, you great feckin' moron!”

            Brad was glad for the straight jacket, and the glass privacy shield between them and the driver.  He wished he’d had the foresight to buy two.  And a ball-gag.  But then one never really could shut Schuldig up.  “You don’t have to yell, Farfarello.  Isn’t there something in the bible about Him being a mind reader, too?”

            Farf glared at him. It was obvious he still had his suspicions about Crawford, even after the intense ‘briefing’ in Switzerland. 

            Schuldig very obviously did not say something, changed his mind about something else, and found it necessary to toy with his hair while looking out the car window. 

            Nagi’s PSP game bleeped and exploded through its little speakers for a few minutes of otherwise silence. 

            Brad sighed and slapped the file closed and put it in his brief case, snapping it shut.  “All right, we’re going to Ireland.  The weather is going to be rather nice and I expect this team to start working together just a little bit better under an occasion of slightly less stress than has been experienced in the past four months.  Aside from the fact that we’re expected to deal with mutant sheep, I’m looking rather forward to trying the Guinness and some of that famous pub food.  Can we all just get along?” he pleaded emphatically.

            Once again, Nagi’s game was the only thing making noise.  Something was utterly destroyed and a happy little tune played after the explosions settled. 

            “Oh, for christsakes!” Brad said and crossed his legs and arms to sulk for the rest of the ride to the airport.

            Farf became even more suspicious. 

 

Two days later, on a rural road in fair Ireland:

 

            “We’ve entered a Monty Python skit,” Schuldig said.  “I never really believed there was an actual place where everyone did stomp about in 'Wellies' and knitted weskits.”

           And of course there was no phone reception.

            “It’s the feckin' countryside, you flaming queen,” Farf grumbled.  “It’s fulla muck and shit, that’s _why_ the Wellies.”

            “I noticed, thank you, Mr. Cheerful!” Schuldig enunciated his irritation. 

            “I thought 'muck' and 'shit' were the same thing,” Nagi sounded a little puzzled, most of his physical effort going into getting his feet out of the rain soaked ground at each step.  Apparently ‘nice weather’ in Ireland meant it only rained a little, not the usual lot. 

            “Muck is mud with shit mixed into it,” Farf edified him. 

            “No amount of Guinness is going to make that damned meat pie stay put,” Brad complained over a sour belch.  He looked at the map and then at the rolling green hills marked off with low stacked stone walls in every direction under a sky layered with suspect clouds.  They'd already been caught in one downpour. “I give up.  Where the hell are we?”

            “First ring of perdition, I’d say,” Farf looked around with a scowl.  He was a city boy, not a country man. 

            “We could stop at a farm and ask,” Nagi said, with false hope.  There wasn't a house in sight; the locals having the sense to build in hollows to avoid the intentions of invading armies.

            They found what _looked_ like a main road again, despite its lack of paving, and stood looking around for a few minutes while Brad got the map sorted out. He tried this by remembering where the sun was supposed to be and estimating how far they had wondered after the rented old Cortina had broken down however many miles back. 

Schuldig refrained once again from remarking on Brad’s cut-throat tactics with the expense account.  If only he’d put in the extra effort for the Beemer.  What was the point of being a precog?  Or having a telepath around for that matter?

            There was a strange noise in the distance, like off key thunder. They all turned, looking around for which direction it had come from, but the low hills echoed eerily off the cloud cover in this area. There was some nervous imagining as to what could have possibly made such a sound.

After a minute or two, the noise sounded again.  A sort of botched shot gun sound, combined with a low beat, this time a bit closer.  

And then, there it was.

            A rattle trap of an old blue and rust pick-up truck, gears grinding and clashing as it climbed up the path and then the engine racing as it rolled down, radio speakers blaring.  They scattered back from the sloped road side they were on and stared in shock as it went by.

            The damned thing was full of sheep.  Black faced white sheep. 

            Not just a load of sheep in the back bed of the truck, but stuffed into the cab, hanging out the windows, clinging to the roof light rack, and—.

            Brad felt very queasy.  And it wasn’t the meat pie.

             -----Driving.

            There was a sheep.  _Driving._

            The truck's radio was blaring rock and roll, the sheep were bahhh-ing it up in tune, and he could swear one of them gave him the pulled down eye and stuck its tongue out at him as they rumbled past.  An empty pizza box and a couple of soda cans were flung out the back to what sounded very much like sheepish laughter.   

            Joy riding sheep.

            The truck back-fired and bucked its way up another hill on the track and disappeared from sight behind a cloud of black smoke and old style rock and roll.

            “Now, I’ve seen it all,” Farfarello said and slowly crossed himself.

            Brad very carefully folded up the map and put it in the inside breast pocket of the tweed hiking jacket he’d decided to buy in town on a Guinness fueled whim.  “I’m assuming from the pizza box that civilization is back that way,” he pointed, and strode down the road again the way the truck had come.

            “But--what about the sheep?” Schuldig called, trotting to catch up with him.  Nagi and Farfarello were still staring after the truck, having a profound metaphysical moment. 

            “It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve fixed a report.” Brad said grimly.

 

 

           Yes, people, there you have it.  A WK cross over with ‘Shaun the Sheep’.   


End file.
